


Every Other Weekend

by losthitsu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/pseuds/losthitsu
Summary: Their marriage was a mistake, and a divorce is the best solution for everybody.And the children, well, the children will get to see both their daddy and their papa. Every other weekend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the 2011 Fruk Lovefest to be found here: http://what-the-fruk.livejournal.com/317427.html?thread=1839603#t1839603

Alfred remembers.

He remembers the days when weekends meant to wake up his brother and stumble in the poor light of early dawn to their parent's bedroom, too young to know what it meant _five in the morning is too early_. The bed seemed so huge back then, like a fortress of pillows and blankets that they had to climb. Papa's voice was soft as he pulled them into a hug and said _five more minutes, my angel_ s and promptly fell asleep. Daddy was grumpy but in the end always gave in and rolled out of the bed, which meant the day had begun and the boring night was over.

He remembers four toothbrushes in the bathroom, four glasses of juice on the breakfast table and four backpacks, two large adult ones and two tiny – blue and red, waiting in the foyer, ready to start their weekend adventure. 

He remembers the proud feeling as he was sitting very high, smiling at Matt who too saw the world from the wonderful perspective of his parents' shoulder. 

The times when daddy and papa were holding hands while four voices sang shrill children songs, fit for the abandoned hiking road in the middle of the mountains.

He remembers evenings when papa and daddy tucked them to their beds hastily and before the usual bedtime, when the goodnight kiss felt cold and the hug was too tight. He always closed his eyes and waited, barely breathing, until the voices started. The words his fathers were speaking were too distant to recognise, but he knew what they meant. 

Those were the nights when Mattie called “Alfred?” in his small, small voice, a signal to run as fast as possible over their car carpet city and climb under Mattie's covers. 

The roughness of his brother's pyjama top, as he was desperately clutching on it with his small hands, that he remembers too.

Alfred also remembers the silence, filling their small house with a dread that he imagined dragon caves from fairytales must have felt like. 

How he realised that he misses the arguments, because the silence was thousand times scarier.

Then he remembers court hearings, aunt Léa shushing them whenever they wanted to speak and how helpless he felt. They forbade him to cry “Lies, lies!” in the cold room, but what else could it be than lies what daddy and papa were both saying?

Then there were cars, large trucks, and a new room to inhabit. New clothes to buy, new toys, new friends in the neighbourhood. 

New toothbrushes, but only three of them.

-

Francis hates.

He hates how his steps echo through the empty apartment, how his fridge accumulates various containers with leftovers because he never learned how to cook for one person, hates the two small beds with impeccably done covers and the stuffed animals looking at him with accusing, beaded eyes.

He considered buying a pet, a dog or maybe a cat since miaowing is so much more pleasant than barking, but he knows Arthur doesn't agree, says the kids have to be a bit older to understand the responsibilities that come with a pet. He knows because his boys told him, still too young to lie to him on purpose, and he hates that his own kids have to play the messenger between them.

It's been half a year, and he still reaches for the rhubarb yoghurt every time he is in the dairy section, only to pull his hand away. The one who likes rhubarb doesn't wait for him at home, not anymore.

Francis hates rhubarb.

He hates how his friends do for him so much of what he doesn't know how to repay, how they change their schedules so that they always have time for him on his lonely weeks and never distract him while he has his boys back. They are too old for wild party nights; their get-togethers consist of couch evenings with work gossip and endless attempts to improve Gilbert's love life. Everything Arthur is a tabu theme, and Francis hates tabus in the first place.

And then there are those little moments, Francis hates them all; when something completely random happens, like when he grabs a towel to wipe a smudge on a window pane or stands on a chair to water the azaleas, and Arthur is there with him, a silly memory of the one or hundred times as they did this together. Déja-vus, hateful mean things.

But most of all, Francis hates the Saturdays with their little suitcases and are you sure you didn't forget anything, boys? He hates the car ride that takes thirty-two minutes but feel like hours, because the boys are completely silent in the backseats and Francis feels the adrenaline coil in his stomach, not the good one that makes you do great things but the one that orders you to run. But he can't and he doesn't want to, because – as much as he hates it – he wants to see Arthur, in his strangely old-fashioned clothes that he didn't have the chance to throw out during their seven years of marriage.

_Did you buy a new sweater? I kind of hate it._

Of course, he doesn't say it out loud; in fact, he doesn't say anything at all save for the usual “Hi.” Not that anybody minds, because Arthur is always too busy hugging their boys – the only good thing they ever did together, as he once, wine bringing out his sarcastic side, said to his friends. And the boys are hugging back, trying with all their strength to squeeze the life out of their dad but Francis knows how that hug feels, knows how weak their arms still are. 

He wishes he could see this in his own – no, their - foyer, a scene he watched so many times before and won't come back. 

And he hates his foyer. 

He always opens his mouth to say something more, maybe a simple “How are you doing?” wouldn't be bad, but Arthur is already turning away, grabbing both boys by their hands. They turn around and wave in unison, “Bye papa, see you in a week!”

Francis hates their week system, hates them both for letting this happen. But after all, they didn't have any other choice, right?

Francis hates not having a choice. 

-

Arthur thinks.

He thinks about how becoming a father was the best decision in his life, because nothing, nothing in the world can compare to the two two little hands holding his larger one with so much trust and affection. Nothing, except maybe for a fourth pair of hands that used to hold them to make the circle perfect, but he rather doesn't think about that.

Instead he thinks about how he will make hot chocolate for the boys once they get back, and how they will cuddle under the blanket and he will read from the new fantasy book that he found just for them in the library. He certainly doesn't think about how Francis had – again – bags under his eyes, and how he was probably working during the nights so that he wouldn't miss a moment with the boys.

It used to be easier as there were two adults to watch over two kids, but no, that was long ago and won't ever come back. 

He frowns as the thought flashes through his mind.

Alfred notices, and Matthew too, because they are attentive and clever boys for their age (and sometimes, Arthur thinks, it's a bit scary). They ask, “What's wrong, daddy, aren't you happy to see us?” and he smiles at them in the rear mirror and says, “Everything is fine!”

He thinks he is convincing enough.

He is wrong.

Soon, the house ( he should start thinking of it as of his house, not theirs, he knows) will be full of laughter again, with little legs running up and down the stairs, with naval battles reenacted in the bathtub with rubber duckies, and Arthur will think – this is perfection, this is all I need in my life.

The nights with their too big beds, too cold sheets and too vivid memories will make him re-think his sentiments.

Sometimes, he thinks about what could have been and never will be. After all, their relationship was hopeless from the start; everybody was saying so, they were too mismatched personalities and it was a wonder they managed through the seven years. 

Were we? Arthur ponders for a moment, when his boys complain once again about his toasts being burned black and how papa always makes them nice and light brown. Weren't we complementing each other? 

It's useless to think about it now, he decides as he puts new bread into the toaster. Thoughts are dangerous things anyway, making him want to call that one number that is still #1 in his phone when he has his no-kids week. Just to make sure how the boys are, of course, and maybe ask him how he makes the unburned toasts.

-

Matthew hopes.

He hopes that he gets the skates for his birthday, and that the sad girl in his class will notice how he always does something funny to make her feel better. She's very cute and deserves to laugh a lot.

He hopes he can be a hockey player once he'll grow up, despite how all the adults he is talking to laugh when he says that. They will see one day. 

He also hopes that he and Alfred will always stay together, even though his brother steals his toys, eats the snacks that were meant for him and always tickles him although he knows how Matthew hates being tickled. He still remembers the ugly old lady with pointy glasses that asked him if he would like to stay with only one parent or switch homes every week, and how he instead of an answer burst into tears. Hopefully they will never tell Alfred, Matthew doesn't want his brother to think he is a coward.

(He doesn't know his brother cried instead of saying anything too.)

That time, he was told that papa and dad together was a hopeless matter and that he should be a big boy and understand that this is for the best.

He kind of hopes he will never grow into an adult who understands that.

Matthew is seven and he still hopes that this isn't forever. That papa and daddy are just playing a strange game or are sulking as he himself does when Alfred won't lend him the toy firetruck that was clearly given to them both to share. Maybe they just should get an adult-adult, somebody who could say “It's not nice to argue with your husband, now shake his hand and say you are sorry or there won't be any apple pie after dinner.”

_Could granny do it? _Matthew doesn't want to put his hopes too high, but maybe he could ask during the next visit.__

Matthew hopes, because, how could he not when daddy still carries papa's picture in his purse? He thinks nobody knows but Matthew saw it very clearly the last time they were grocery shopping and he pulled out the banknotes. It was papa on the sandy beach they went to last year, in a white shirt and sunglasses, and Matthew knew the picture on first sight because it used to sit on Dad's bedside table. 

How can he not hope when the mailbox still carries the Kirkland-Bonnefoy name tag? 

Why shouldn't he hope when every Saturday when they switch places, papa looks at dad with this sad, wishing face, kind of like Matthew himself feels when he watches the cute girl in his class?

Alfred doesn't know about it yet, Matthew didn't tell him; it would feel like he is betraying the little flame of hope, still burning in his chest. 

He doesn't know his brother hopes for the same thing too.


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew's rain boots are green and polka-dotted, and so are Alfred's. 

It's raining this Saturday and the parking lot where they usually meet doesn't have a roof, but papa's waiting arms are too tempting to wait. So they run.

It's Alfred who trips, but it's Matthew's hand he is holding, and they both end up in a puddle, the biggest one the whole parking lot has to offer. Arthur and Francis don't even have time to grab their umbrellas, their parental instincts pulling them out of the car safety into the pouring rain.

Set the boys to their feet, examine the damage, kiss the hurt knee, wipe away the tears; it's the easiest thing in the world to slip into the routine they drilled for seven years. Twins require teamwork, everybody knows that; one parent for each boy. Hand me the tissue, hold the coat while I squeeze the water out, they work in perfect unison, without saying a word. 

It takes maybe three minutes and neither of them realises back then, but despite bruises and drenched clothes, everything is fine for once. 

Then Francis takes the boys by their hands and hurries to the car, they need to get warm as soon as possible. He is about to close the door when he hears a voice, weak through the sound of the raindrops splashing on the pavement.

“Don't forget to dry their hair properly, you know how easily they catch a cold.”

And Francis, ignoring all the things he could answer, just smiles and says “Will do.”

 

The car ride home is silent for both parents. Francis is thinking about the tissue pack Arthur handed him, how it is still the brand he himself demanded the household would buy and Arthur used to be sceptical about.

Arthur just hates what Francis' smile still does to his stomach.

 

Since then, Saturdays change. 

Clipped attempts at a conversation come first, Francis asks “How are your parents?” and Arthur feels obliged to ask the same. Two sentences, three, four, and suddenly it's been ten minutes of them standing in the parking lot, talking.

None of them realises their boys are miraculously quiet during those ten minutes. 

Then a sunny Saturday follows and Matthew asks, chubby finger pointing to the playground nearby, “Daddy, couldn't we go and play on the swings before we go home?” And they do and the swings with the twins fly high and Arthur curses quietly as he steps into the mud and Francis laughs. The laugh breaks the coating of Arthur's composure that was never too thick in the first place, and he spits back an insult about frogs that live in the mud and what he things about their croaking. 

Before Francis can say his sarcastic reply he steps into mud too, designer shoes looking suddenly very un-designer-ish. 

All four laugh. Icebergs are moving.

Then it's a boxed lunch Francis brings with him, _Let's grant the poor boys at least one wholesome meal in the entire week of your care_ , that they eat on the benches next to the playground. 

They realise how much they used to hate the parking lot only as they start liking it.

After that, it's Arthur's turn, or so he thinks but doesn't tell anybody. He thinks and thinks and despairs because he's horrible with social stuff, and that's the moment when Alfred runs into his study and shows him the local newspaper. “Daddy daddy, I want to see this movie so badly, can we go? Saturday is the last day they are showing it!”

Popcorn and cartoons help with icebergs too.

Soon, Saturdays become the days when both parents don't pick their phones and stay out of home long after dark. They part with “See you next week”, the one without kids watching how the other puts the half asleep boys into their seats only to wave goodbye as soon as the engine gets started.

And then it's not only Saturdays, it's a Thursday when Arthur opens a new tab next to the thirteen work-related ones, and types _marriage counselling_ into google.

A Tuesday night with Gilbert and Antonio and Cluedo, because they are nowadays too cool to get drunk (and also Antonio got a promotion and can't afford to have a hangover on the next day). The one when Francis asks, “Do you two believe in second chances?”

His friends admittedly aren't really helpful with relationship advice, but they hug him and tell him that he's stupid and shouldn't think too much, and that's basically all he ever asked for.

 

And then there is a quiet night, end of November and the sheets feel especially cold against Arthur's bare feet. It's the night when he finally presses the #1 on his phone, and the way Francis picks up after the second ringing assures him he wasn't asleep yet.

“I think we should talk.”

The first thing Francis does on the next day is to call Léa and ask her to babysit for him, and to cancel every appointment he had for the afternoon. He once let his work to collide with his personal life, but he knows where his priorities are now.

 

They meet in Francis' apartment, because it feels more neutral than their house. It's the first time for Arthur to be there, and it's scary and thrilling how much the space breathes with Francis' personality. But there is Play-Doh on the carpet and crayon stickfigures on the wallpaper, and it doesn't feel so strange anymore.

They sit opposite each other, the kitchen table separating them; to trust themselves enough to be within each other's reach of the other is out of the question for now, not when they are alone.

They talk. 

Both are clumsy, not used to showing their souls to anyone for so long. Both are tripping over words, raise their voice in the most inappropriate moments and stubbornly repeat their arguments.

But for the first time, they are honest.

About their past and what they felt, about what they imagined and didn't get. About the nearly one year of separation and what they learned from it.

About future and possibilities. 

About them four.

 

The talk ends up at half past three in the morning night, both too exhausted to continue but content to have said what they needed to say. Francis finds fresh linen for the spare bed and wishes Arthur good night. No touches, not yet.

They will come later.

Both know for sure.

Alfred has several techniques for how to wake up Matthew on a Saturday morning, but reaching underneath his blanket and tickle his sides is his favourite. Just like always, Matthew squeaks and punches Alfred in his arm, the movement practised so many times that he doesn't miss even though he is half asleep.

They tiptoe through the house, the flooring ice-cold under their naked feet; it snows behind the window panes, and the four pairs of skis in the foyer corner - two big and two tiny ones – are promising an exciting day. 

Their parents' bedroom is open a crack and they slide inside, carefully quiet. They are now big enough to see onto the bed without climbing in first.

Papa is resting his head on daddy's chest and clutches him like Matthew likes to hold his white teddybear. Daddy sleeps on his back, one hand behind his head and the other threaded through papa's hair.

“Hey, Alfie!” Matthew whispers, staying on tiptoes to reach his brother's ear. “I don't really want to wake them up yet.”

Alfred just nods, grabs his brothers' hand and they leave the bedroom, closing the door behind them. 

Only then does Alfred grin and say, “Of course we let them sleep, we're old enough to play alone on a Saturday morning, right?”


End file.
